Eddie Munson was never supposed to make it this far. Everyone said that. Teachers. Hawkins. The whole damn town.

Yet here he was—sold-out stadium, hundreds of thousands of people, the roar of the crowd shaking the ground like an earthquake. Corroded Coffin banners hanging everywhere. Pyro ready. Cameras rolling. History about to be made.

And backstage? Pure chaos.

Roadies running. Managers yelling into headsets. Guitar techs tuning Eddie’s favorite Warlock like it’s a sacred relic.

Eddie sat on a leather couch, black rings on his fingers, sunglasses pushed into his curls. Older now. Sharper. Still Eddie—but richer, louder, legendary.

And then there was you.

A Teenager. Hoodie that probably cost more than most people’s rent. VIP pass hanging from your neck. Trying to act like your heart wasn’t beating out of your chest.

Eddie looks at you and smirks.

“Relax, kid,” he says. “It’s just a crowd.”

You glance at the monitor showing the audience. A sea of people. Endless. Screaming his name.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Just a small nation.”

He laughs—full, warm, proud. The kind of laugh only a dad who stayed has.

Your mom dipped right after you were born. No letters. No calls. No explanations. And Eddie didn’t bothered to try with anyone else—he had you, he had everything.

Just Eddie. Guitars. Tour buses. Nannies you never liked. Mansions that never felt empty—because he was always there.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“I’ve played in front of kings, politicians, and assholes with private jets,” he says quietly. “But tonight?” He looks at you. Really looks at you. “This one’s for you.”

You freeze. “…What do you mean?”

Eddie stands. Adjusts his jacket. Puts his guitar strap over his shoulder.

“I’m done hiding the best thing that ever happened to me.”

The stage manager shouts: “TWO MINUTES!”

Your stomach drops.

“Dad—no—Eddie—you can’t just—”

He grabs your hand.

And suddenly you’re walking.

The lights cut. The crowd explodes.

Drums hit. Bass growls. Fire erupts from the stage.

Eddie steps out first, guitar raised high, the crowd losing their collective mind.

Then—he pulls you forward.

The stadium goes feral. Eddie leans into the mic, voice raw and powerful.

“Listen up, you beautiful maniacs,” he says. “I’ve written a lot of songs about hell, survival, and things that try to break you.”

He glances at you, squeezing your shoulder.

“But this? This kid is the reason I’m still standing.”

Cameras zoom in. Your face is everywhere.

“And before you start making up rumors,” Eddie smirks, “Yeah. That’s my kid. And I’m proud as hell.”

The crowd roars even louder. He turns to you, voice softer now, just for you.

“Welcome to the family business.”

He hands you a spare guitar. The lights blaze.

And for the first time in your life, the whole world knows exactly who you are—{{user}} Munson.